


Sweetest in the gale

by anna_rr



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Post-Troubled Blood, Troubled Blood Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_rr/pseuds/anna_rr
Summary: The sequel to ‘The thing with feathers’ that I wasn’t going to write, but I love these two, and I’m weak willed.It’s Strike’s 40th birthday.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 44
Kudos: 83





	Sweetest in the gale

A leisurely breakfast is a rare luxury - justification enough, Strike thinks, for a second helping. It’s his birthday, after all, and it’s not as if there’s anyone else queueing up for it - or more to the point, any witnesses. Besides, when it comes to defrosting sausages it’s all or nothing, so it’s not like he actually had a choice.

If he’s honest, a lazy start to a Sunday is something he generally avoids. Being alone with his thoughts and no case to focus them on can lead him down paths he’d rather not go: regret, and anger, and loss; not to mention the pull of that other path that lately he’s found harder to resist, the one that promises things he’s never dared trust.

He’s safer keeping occupied, he thinks, sitting down with a cup of tea and the pile of post Pat had handed him on Friday, apparently squirrelling away packages and cards all week. Pat, who’d presented him with a tin of shortbread that he’s fairly certain is re-gifted, but still. It’s progress, and progress in the form of shortbread is no bad thing.

He recognises the handwriting on the first envelope and puts it aside unopened. Another day, maybe; he doesn’t want today to be derailed by past chaos. He’s changed his phone number, but there’s not much he can do about his address. As he works his way through messages that make him smile and some welcome gifts - you can always rely on Nick and Ilsa, he thinks, admiring the bottle of single malt - he catches himself feeling almost sentimental. He has some good friends, he thinks, laughing at Polworth’s card: some that have stuck around since the beginning, and some who’ve come later, and are no less important for that.

Was it Pat’s arrangement or his, he wonders, to save Robin’s card to last? It’s unusually generic for her, although he knows from her own birthday that there’s not much choice when it comes to the decades. The message is short but sweet, addressed to ‘Strike’, again, which pleases him. See you later xx, it finishes. Two kisses. Maybe they build up each birthday? He is forty years old, he thinks, and he’s analysing the number of kisses on his card like a teenager. Why do those three simple words make his pulse quicken?

His phone rings; it’s Lucy, sounding bright but distracted, neither of which are unusual. She wishes him a happy birthday and he thanks her for the jumper and for Jack’s present, an army sticker book, and tries to remember exactly what Luke and the other one - Adam, he remembers, just in time - sent, if anything.

Lucy sighs. “It’s lucky we didn’t invite you here - we’ve had norovirus doing the rounds this week. Honestly, children, they’re walking bug magnets, they really are.” She pauses a moment. “Have you heard from Ted?”

“Yeah, he sent a card. And a cheque.” Strike smiles, remembering the five-pound notes Ted and Joan would always squeeze into cards when he was at university.

“Have you spoken to him though?”

“I’ll ring him this evening, say thank you.” His tone is sharper than he means it to be, but it annoys him, the way Lucy always tries to police his family relationships.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll see you soon. Have a lovely day with Robin.”

Telling his family he was spending his birthday with Robin might have bought him relative peace on the day itself, but he’d known it opened him up to a barrage of hints and expectations that were hardly subtle before. In fairness, though, Lucy - and Ilsa, for that matter - had played it surprisingly cool. Perhaps they think their work is done.

He checks his watch - just after eleven, and Robin’s picking him up at midday. Birthday or not, he can’t spend the entire day in his boxers, and while she’d told him dressing up was not required, which had relieved him, she’s probably expecting actual clothes as a starting point. As it is, he find himself making some effort, because - no, he’s not going to analyse why.

When Robin’s text arrives he’s already spotted the Land Rover, and he stops only to turn his phone off as he heads down the stairs, knowing that she’s waiting on a double yellow, and telling himself that’s the reason he’s been looking out for her.

She’s wearing a green jumper that reminds him of The Dress (his life would be so much easier, he thinks, if he could stop thinking of it in capital letters), and that now-familiar note of perfume that he’s only grown more attached to since first expressing a preference for it.

“That was quick,” she says, “For a forty-year-old.”

“For a forty-year-old with one leg and a weakness for pies, that was impressive, you‘ve got to admit.”

“It’s your birthday,” she laughs, “I think being impressed is part of the deal.”

“Impressed that I’ve made it this far,” he says, dryly.

“That too,” she says.

The day opens out, a sky that’s winter-blue at the edges arcing into warmth. Robin manoeuvres through the traffic, the hubbub of central London giving way to tree-lined suburbs, light finding colour in the bare branches and decaying leaves.

“So go on, where are we headed?” he asks.

“I’m taking you to Cornwall,” she says, and then, noting the panic that briefly crosses his face - low key, he’d said (even though he’d known he didn’t need to say it), 9am client Monday morning - “Or the next best thing, anyway.”

“If it’s Battersea Beach, I didn’t bring my bucket and spade.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Robin says, sympathetically, “Who knows what you might pick up.”

They’re not long out of London when they draw up in a car park outside a red-brick building, its newly printed sign bearing the name ‘The Ragged Chough’.

“It sounds like an illness,” Robin acknowledges, “But the reviews are good.”

That’s apparent - it’s busy, and he wonders if they’ll get a table, but Robin has - of course - booked, and they’re shown into a corner nook, the eponymous red-beaked bird preserved in a nearby glass case, its beaded eye twinkling.

It’s a curious mix of traditional and kitsch, a log fire burning in a huge iron grate, light flickering on the oak-beamed ceiling. In one corner a life-size pirate leers across the room at a buxom milkmaid advertising cream teas who winks back, neither of them daunted by their peeling paint. What’s unmistakably authentic is the rich aroma of the ‘legendary Cornish pasties’, as the menu chalked up by the bar boasts, and the gleam of the logo that tells him they have Doom Bar on tap.

The salty strains of folk songs surge beneath the chatter, the singer so weathered Strike half-expects to see barnacles clinging to his beard.

“You’re winning already,” he says, nodding over his shoulder. “No Christmas music. That’s a big tick.”

Robin smiles. “Maybe he does requests,” she says, solemnly, “You should ask for _Song of the Western Men_.”

“Maybe I will.”

The girl who takes their order is run a little ragged herself, pushing her hair back from a face pink with exertion.

“It’ll be a little wait,” she says, “We’re a bit short staffed today.”

Firelight picks up the gleam in the amber liquid in front of him, and glints in red-gold hair, and sitting there Strike can’t find it in himself to be disappointed by the delay.

By the time he buys a second round - although he’s not sure a beer and a coke exactly count as a round - he feels thoroughly at home. It’s not so much the tourist’s version of Cornwall - although, home has always had plenty of that - but the situation, and the company. Lunch and a drink with Robin could be any day on a case, a comfortable normality. Except that this isn’t work, and the fact that sits so comfortably makes him feel something that isn’t comfort, exactly.

“So is it true?” she asks, as he hands her her drink, “Does life begin at forty?”

Before he can answer, her phone rings and he sees her forehead crease as she glances down.

“It’s Lucy,” she says, and seeing his own bemusement, adds, “Your sister.”

A small knot of alarm forms in his chest and he’s not sure if it’s Lucy ringing that troubles him or the fact that she and Robin appear to have exchanged numbers.

“Hello?” He watches as the line of concern crossing Robin’s forehead deepens. “Yes, he’s here. Of course, I’ll pass you over.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucy begins, her voice tight with agitation, “I know it’s your birthday, but it’s Ted.”

Strike’s heart drops.

“He didn’t pick up when I rang this morning - he knows I ring at nine every day, he’s always there - so I kept trying, and in the end I tried Dave Polworth and said if he was in the area, could he just drop by and check everything was OK.”

Strike wants the outcome, not the pre-amble, but with restraint he’s honed over years letting clients tell their story, he bites his tongue.

“I heard back from him about half an hour ago, he said there was no answer so he went in - there’s still that key under the pot - and there’s no-one there, but there’s a mug knocked over on the carpet. So he asked the neighbour, Janet, and she said she’d got back from getting the paper first thing and she’d seen an ambulance pulling away.”

He hears the strain in her voice as she appeals to him.

“Stick, you’re better at this than I am. You always get to the bottom of things, it’s what you do. Can you help find him?”

“I’ll make some calls,” he promises, as Lucy delivers the final blow.

“I’d go down there, but I’ve still got twenty-four hours before I’m allowed near a hospital.”

“I’ll drive you down,” Robin says without hesitation, when he tells her.

He thinks of all the times Ted and Joan had dropped everything to come and extract them from the various holes his mother had left them in, and knows the only thing he can do is accept.

Robin goes to settle at the bar while he tries to get through to the local hospital, a quick cigarette a distraction from the memories resurfaced from the year gone, and the worries ahead.

He suspects it’s not so much his detective skills as his name that gets him the answers that had eluded Lucy - although noting the five missed calls and the stream of messages, perhaps he’d been her sole route of enquiry. He fills Robin in as he climbs into the Land Rover beside her.

“He’s in Truro. Chest pains,” he says, aware that he sounds like he’s summarising a case, and conscious, too, why he reverts to that, “He rang 111 and they called an ambulance. Could be a heart attack but they don’t know, they’re doing another ECG and some blood tests. They said they’ll let me know if anything changes.”

Whereas Joan had relished having a mobile phone, a source of interaction and endless pictures of Lucy’s boys, Ted was more likely to leave home with fishing twine, or slug pellets, than the phone he nominally owned. Strike couldn’t talk to him directly, but whoever he’d spoken to had promised to let Ted know he’d rung, conveying a warmth and competence that combined have left his heart feeling lighter. For a fleeting moment he’d wondered if they could leave after lunch, grab hold of what’s left of the promise of the afternoon before it slips away altogether, but he knows Joan would have trusted him not to leave Ted on his own in his time of need, and besides, Robin would be horrified if he suggested it.

The mouthwatering smell of the lunch they’d come so close to actually eating lingers in his mind, and his stomach. He searches the glove compartment.

“Tell me you’ve got biscuits.”

“I can do better than that.”

Robin reaches down beside her, producing a box with a familiar black bird printed in the corner. He opens it to find two Cornish pasties, freshly-baked.

“I bloody love you, Ellacott.”

She has a way of making things happen, he thinks, remembering the very first day he met her, how she’d pulled his business back from the brink of bankruptcy with coffee and chocolate biscuits.

It’s only then that he realises what he’s said, and the way it’s sitting in the air between them. Should he qualify it? But that would only make things awkward, and she seems to have taken it in her stride. Or not noticed, maybe.

He decides not to dwell on it, the pleasures promised by the pastry flaking between his fingers consuming his attention instead.

“This is basically the best pasty I’ve ever had.”

She smiles sidelong at him as she shifts gear. “Don’t let your friend Dave hear you say that.”

“The best pasty I’ve had outside of Cornwall,” he amends, diplomatically.

It had been no surprise that Polworth liked Robin - to the point that his friend had cornered him at the bar and asked, “Mate, what on earth are you waiting for?” before reminding him about Tolstoy - but that he’d somehow made a favourable impression in return had been unexpected.

It occurs to him that it’s something of a one-sided birthday feast.

“Do you want yours?”

“Yes!” she says, with a vehemence that surprises him. “It may be your birthday, but you’re not having my pasty.”

“No, I meant did you want me to - ”

To what? Hold out a pasty the size of a dinner plate so she can nibble on it like a hamster? Break it into bites and feed it to her for the duration of the M3?

She laughs, apparently conjuring up the same image.

“Think I’ll wait.”

There’s no update from the hospital when they stop at the services - no news is good news, Strike reassures Lucy, hoping it’s true - and standing in the gents he takes a moment to collect his thoughts. Gnawing anxiety and guilt sit alongside something suspiciously like pleasure, the unexpected road trip not without its perks.

He returns to the Land Rover bearing donuts and coffee in festive paper cups.

“This one’s for you, clearly” he says, handing it to her.

“And so it begins,” Robin rolls her eyes.

He’s thrown for a moment, unsure of what he’s said.

“The robins,” she clarifies.

“See a lot of them, this time of year, do you?”

“They start arriving late November,” she explains, “By Boxing Day the whole flock have moved in. There’s always a robin card in a selection park.” She sighs. “It’s not just the cards. I’ve had tea towels, mugs, earrings - of course, the inevitable jumper - “

“Of course.”

“- And people save the wrapping paper for birthday presents, because that’s what you want on your birthday, isn’t it. Something to remind you of your name, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Look, you can have the reindeer if you prefer,” he says, holding out his cup.

She shakes her head, laughing. “I know where I am with a robin.”

“If it’s any consolation, someone once got me a birthday card with a box of matches on it.”

“That’s a bit niche,” Robin grins, “They hunted around for that. Bit worrying.”

“Also, bowling,” he says, “Had a few of those.”

“Thoughtful.”

“And football.” He shrugs. “But I’m never sure if that’s the strike reference or just because I like football.”

“Well that’s given me plenty of ideas for next year,” Robin notes.

Next year, that irrepressible brain of his repeats. Next year when he gets three kisses.

“The puns wear a bit thin, too. People love a good pun in a birthday card. Strike lucky.”

“Strike gold,” she supplies.

He has, both, that brain of his chimes in.

“Strike back,” he offers, “Got that one with my leg, believe it or not.”

“Strike a pose,” Robin adds, wickedly.

It strikes - there’s another one - a chord. “Mum used to get them all the time.” His jaw tightens. “Strike down. Strike out.”

He’s thought of her often today, the milestone birthday that she’d barely made. But he’s being maudlin, and he lets it go.

“At least nothing goes with Ellacott,” Robin muses.

Except I bloody love you Ellacott, he thinks.

“Oh, this is for you,” she says, handing him a bright red envelope, “No strike reference intended.”

He opens it, his eyes widening at the two tickets inside.

“These are like gold-dust; how did you - “

“I got No. 16 to pull some strings for me,” she smiles, referring to their recent celebrity footballer client.

Strike isn’t sure how he feels about that.

She picks up on it, maybe, because she explains, “It’s all above board, the case was closed. Anyway, it’s more from him than me, really.”

It’s not a conflict of professional interest he’s worried about, but he knows he’s being ridiculous; she’s given him basically the best present of his entire birthday, after all.

“This is brilliant, Robin. Thank you.”

He could take Jack, he thinks. Or Nick. Ted would love it, if - his heart twists. Or even -

“Do you like football?”

“I could,” she answers, “Make a change from rugby.”

He can’t decide if that’s non-committal or an endorsement, and when he glances across to read her expression, she’s turned away, looking at something on her phone.

“I found this, too,” she says, holding it out towards him.

He recognises it instantly, the faded glory of the Art Deco cinema they’d once visited in connection with a case. He remembers Robin’s face as they’d stood in the foyer, waiting to interview the barman, admiring what was left of the gold-scalloped carpet and the still-sleek lines above them.

“I love things like this - sort of worn and damaged and past their peak, but full of character,” she’d said.

“Is that why you’re working for me?” he’d quipped.

He wonders if she remembers too.

Today’s date is highlighted on the home page. ‘This weekend,’ it reads, ‘Film Noir Festival at The Old Picturehouse’- or in fact, The Old Picturehorse, proofreading clearly not a strong point - ‘Solve some of the silver screen’s classic mysteries all over again.’

The thought that she puts into things, the planning. The way that she anticipates things. He knows this, because he works with her, but it touches him all the more for that.

“I think we might miss the beginning,” he says, hoping that she understands that he loves the idea, and he’s sorry, and she grins at him over the robin cup.

“It’s always just trailers and adverts at the start, anyway.”

When they return to the motorway the sun is noticeably lower in the sky. It’s the kind of sunset that makes people stop, mid-way over the Thames, and get out their phones, or - rarer, but not gone altogether - simply stand for a moment and contemplate. Somewhere in a parallel universe, he and Robin are making the most of their afternoon at the Ragged Chough, he supposes, remembering the congress tarts he’d seen piled high near the bar. Or perhaps they’re killing time in London before the film starts, standing on the Jubilee bridge as the light fades from the sky.

It’s long dark when they reach Cornwall, the ‘pen’s and the ‘pol’s and the ‘porth’s lit up in succession in the car headlights, the roads narrowing and the silvery line of the sea on the horizon. He thinks about that his last trip out to sea here, and all the times he’d visited leading up to it. Joan, and now Ted. Forty didn’t feel old this morning, but everyone else is getting old.

He’s spent as much time in hospitals as he ever wants to, but as Robin pulls up into the parking space he recalls their last visit to a hospital together with sudden warmth. Her being there buoys him now as it did then, her presence an anchor of solidarity and hope - and at the same time, something not quite so settling. Something that makes him very conscious that once again they’re standing facing each other in a hospital car park. She stretches, rolling back her shoulders, and for half a moment he considers offering to massage out the knot, but he dismisses it. Given that she’s just put aside carefully laid plans and driven for over six hours to get him here, he owes her something, but he’s not sure anything he can find in a vending machine will be up to the job. He’s not forgotten how he thanked her last time.

“Knew it was too good to be true,” she says, as a herring gull the size of a small dog comes to roost on the Land Rover, “The free parking space.”

“There’s no such thing as a free parking space,” he returns, and she throws him a look that he catches, there in the gleam of the floodlights.

When they eventually find him, Ted is pale and drawn, but he’s sitting with the upright bearing of a once military man, his face set.

“I’m being discharged,” he explains, “It’s angina. Got to take things quietly for a bit.” His resolve cracks a little. “I am glad you’re here.”

The nurse arrives to remove the cannula, addressing Ted in a broad Scottish accent, but turning to Robin at intervals, no doubt assuming that she’s the responsible adult. The stack of medication he hands Ted is not a small one, and he makes sure both Ted and Robin know to book an appointment with the GP soon.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ted says, and the nurse corrects him gently, patting his shoulder as he leaves.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Strike says, when they arrive back at the house in St Mawes, tiredness subsumed by the flood of relief.

“I’ll do it,” Ted says, “I’m not dead yet, and you two have travelled halfway across the country to get here.”

Strike turns to Robin as Ted busies himself in the kitchen.

“There’s a spare room,” he says, “Or I can recommend the sofa, if you sleep better with springs digging into your back?” More seriously, he adds, “I can try a B&B? It’s not exactly overrun with tourists at this time of year.”

“You’ve not really sold me the sofa,” Robin answers, “But I’ll take the spare room. I think we should be here, for your uncle.”

She’s right, he thinks. About Ted; about birthdays. And she’s here, and that’s right, too.

“Although,” she says, mischievously, “You’re forty now. Can you survive a night on the sofa?”

He can think of a solution, but it’s not the time to suggest it.

“Honestly? Right now I’ll take it over a round trip,” he says, “Although that reminds me, I need to do something about tomorrow.”

“It’s sorted,” Robin says, “I contacted Pat, she’s going to arrange cover.”

She’ll probably claim for overtime, Strike thinks, but he’s relieved, although most of the gratitude he feels is directed somewhere other than their office manager.

Ted sets a tray down in front of them, three mugs and a plate of chocolate digestives.

“Joan would have magicked up a birthday cake from somewhere,” he says, “But this is the best I’ve got.”

Maybe it’s the mention of Joan, or the day he’s had, but Ted sits back with sudden weariness.

“Have you got everything you need for tonight?” he asks them, turning to Robin. “There’s some bits of Joan’s that haven’t gone to the charity shop yet.” He sighs. “She’d have loved to have met you.”

The addendum, Strike hopes, redeems the offer of what must be a flannelette nightgown and a selection of elderly underwear, but Robin looks touched.

They’re interrupted by the doorbell ringing and Strike answers, to a middle-aged lady who introduces herself as Janet from next door.

“I saw the lights on,” she says. “Is Ted OK? I’ve been so worried.”

Strike reassures her, briefly updating her on events as he shows her in.

Ted offers Janet a biscuit as he introduces them. “This is my nephew and his partner, Cormoran and Robin.”

Work partner, Strike thinks he should clarify, but Robin, too, seems to let it slide.

“Come all this way on his birthday,” Ted adds.

“It’s not nine-o-clock yet, a young couple like you, you should be out celebrating,” Janet asserts. “I’ll sit with Ted, keep an eye on things.”

Strike wonders again if he should correct her, but he catches Robin’s eye, and she looks like a person not unwilling to take up the offer.

It’s a cold night, and the sea breeze is decidedly bracing, as they head out for a drink at the Victory Inn. Given a choice of Joan’s quilted coat, Ted’s waterproof and an old jacket of Strike’s, Robin had taken that. It’s too big, but she wraps it round herself, hands tucked up inside overlong sleeves.

Familiarity tugs at him as he settles opposite her, her green jumper and her bright hair and her warm eyes catching the attention, he notes, of some old faces. A regular might observe it’s the first time he’s brought her here, but he knows, really, that’s not the case. It’s not the first evening he’s sat here, her image drawing his focus from the view, or stood at the bar thinking of something else he wants to tell her.

The bell rings for last orders, and while Robin nips to the loo, Strike heads outside for a smoke. He tells her he’ll back in ten minutes, but hunched into the sharp wind, five seems like it could be plenty.

Dotted across the horizon is the dim glow of fishing boats out at sea: faint, but steady, while festive lights flicker in the harbour, whipped up by the wind.

_Futile the winds_  
_To a heart in port_  
_Done with the compass_  
_Done with the chart_

When he gets home tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll open the card from Charlotte. She can’t touch him now. Something better has found its way in.

Back in that parallel universe, he and Robin are emerging from the cosy warmth of the tiny cinema into the London night. Maybe they stop out for a drink, or maybe - well, who knows? And instead here they are, freezing and exhausted, the night offering such tempting prospects as borrowed underwear and a threadbare sofa.

Does it count, he thinks? Does what happens in Cornwall stay in Cornwall?

“Told you I was taking you to Cornwall for your birthday,” a voice beside him says, near enough that he feels her warm breath cut through the night air.

He takes in her red cheeks, red nose, red mouth, stung by the wind but bright with something more. Looking at her flushed face, her lips, he regrets that cigarette.

It’s cold, the wind. Reducing surface area conserves heat, he thinks, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her against him. She evidently agrees, pressing that little bit closer.

“Thank you,” he says, kissing the top of her head.

The night is still young.

**Author's Note:**

> More Emily Dickinson: the title is another line from Hope; the verse towards the end from Wild Nights.


End file.
